


À Deux (The Opus 11 Remix)

by language_escapes



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:01:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8741623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/pseuds/language_escapes
Summary: There is something sacred, he decides.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Interlude](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8590444) by [grrlpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grrlpup/pseuds/grrlpup). 



There is something sacred, he thinks, in watching her play the piano.

It’s out of tune, yes, and of course it’s temporary- the piano will go back to their client, now that the puzzle is solved- but when she sits at the piano bench, he sees something in Watson that he rarely glimpses any other time.

It’s the softness in her back. Her spine is no longer rigid and firm with the weight of professionalism. Her posture is perfect, of course; he imagines her piano instructor made sure of that. Old habits die hard, as he knows all too well, the fingers of his left hand twitching in half-remembered songs while his right remembers a worse habit, one he wishes he could forget. But her spine when they work is tight, as though she’s always braced for a blow. From him, from their colleagues, from the world in general… he’s never been able to deduce where the source of her tension comes from. Now, her spine is straight, but relaxed and almost welcoming.

It’s the gentleness in her face. Watson has a lovely face, and it is often open and kind and warm, but there is always something guarded in her eyes. He has, from time to time, cajoled secrets out of her, or deduced them when he could not force her tongue, but he has never been able to convince her that with him she is safe, that he is a person she could confide in. He wonders if it a failing of his, something he has done that makes her protect herself so well, but then he remembers what she was like when they met and he knows that while he has not aided her in this, he certainly did not create it.

It’s the lilting arc of her wrists as she moves her hands over the keys, at first hesitantly and now with more confidence as the old songs come back to her. Her wrists are delicate but strong. All he has seen her do with her hands in the past year is box or wield a baton. He believes, naturally, in the beauty of self-defense, but it does not compare with the beauty of watching her hands create music.

There is something sacred, he decides.

It isn’t the music; the Bach is executed well enough but not in a way that should move him to tears. It is understandable; she has not played since her teens. And the piano is just out of tune, at times excruciatingly so to his sensitive ears. It is her. It is entirely her.

It’s always her that takes his breath away.

******  
The piano is taken away the next morning, and Watson barely looks up from the case files Marcus dropped off to see it go. She asks him the occasional question about parrots and their capacity for crime, or the average length of a New York sewer, and he answers her absentmindedly. He stares at the piano as Luc takes it away, and plots.

Hours later, he puts on his coat. “I’m going out,” he calls to Watson, who is still on the sofa, case files surrounding her.

She looks over at him. “Where?”

“I have a meeting with a former client,” he says shortly, wrapping a scarf around his neck.

For a moment, he thinks he sees a flicker of hurt at his abruptness, but then her face is still again. It’s maddening, the way she hides from him, but he ignores it and instead opens the door, the autumn wind blowing a few leaves into the foyer.

“Have fun,” she calls.

That is exactly what he plans to do.

******  
His meeting with Jeanne goes well, and he gives her Luc’s phone number in order that they might make arrangements. He has explained the necessity of everything arriving while Watson is away, and he believes they understand. Once those arrangements are made, he browses through the rest of the store, his restless hands digging through the rows and rows of music. 

Violin has always been a means to an end for him. His father insisted on a classical music education for his children, and had boomed that he would not tolerate any more of “that damned piano” in his household. Both Mycroft and his mother had played the grand piano that took up much of the drawing room in his childhood home, and while Mycroft had taken it somewhat seriously, his mother had a habit of beginning with Beethoven or Chopin and morphing it, somehow, into a fantastical rendition of Chopsticks or Heart and Soul. He used to lay beneath the piano and listen to her play, always amused at the variations she would come up with. But he can understand why his father did not want to encourage that in Sherlock, given that he’d always taken after his mother. So the violin had been left to him, and he’d taken to it immediately, even if it did not always interest him.

Now, though, his interest in his violin has reawakened, this time driven by a single purpose. 

He digs through the music until he finds what he wants, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He hides it behind a scowl and purchases the music from Jeanne, then heads back to the brownstone, a slight bounce in his step.

******  
It takes some doing, but he arranges for Ms Hudson to take Watson out for coffee after she finishes cleaning. He makes sure he buries himself in a new project, testing what color the roots of a bamboo plant will turn when immersed in different sorts of liquids, so that when Watson asks if he would like to come he can honestly say that he’s busy. He sits perfectly still, holding the bamboo plant that he’d left in molasses, until he hears the door close. Then he jumps to his feet and calls Luc.

“It is time,” he says, and then hangs up. He runs up the stairs and begins pulling the dust covers off the furniture that is in the room next to Watson’s, shoving the furniture to the very edges of the room when he’s done. He finds the hoover- easily enough, as Ms Hudson had just finished with it; otherwise he would be lost as to its whereabouts- and does a quick once over the room. Then, as Luc has not yet arrived, he finds the wood polish and sets himself to the base boards. His heart beats in his ears. The room must be perfect.

He has been at base boards for about fifteen minutes when he hears the equipment outside. His heart leaps, and he hurries down to help.

******  
He is waiting by the door when Watson returns from her coffee with Ms Hudson. Coffee which, he thinks, turned into an early supper followed by some shopping, judging by the bags in Watson’s arms and the fact that it is late when she returns. He reminds himself to buy Ms Hudson a bouquet of flowers, the next time she comes by the brownstone; none of his arrangements would have been possible but for her.

“Watson,” he says when she comes in.

She raises an eyebrow and sets down her bag, working on the buttons of her coat. “Sherlock,” she says.

He bounces on his toes, tapping his fingers on his leg, trying to figure out the best way to present his gift to her. Finally he settles for just blurting, “I have a gift for you.” It’s inelegant, but it gets the point across.

Her eyebrows creep up higher. He lets her finish hanging up her coat, and then he plucks at her sleeve and gestures for her to follow him, turning to go up the stairs.

“A gift? Sherlock, it’s not my birthday or anything,” she protests, following behind him.

“I was unaware that one had to have an occasion in order to give a gift.”

“Well, it’s the normal thing to do.”

“When have I ever done the normal thing, Watson?”

“Okay, fair point,” she agrees as they reach the first floor. He heads down the hall, turning on lights as he goes. He’d forgotten the importance of presentation, and is regretting not better preparing for this moment.

“As it is, you know I’m likely to forget to give you something on your actual birthday, so you can just accept this as an early- or late, did I give you anything this year?- gift.”

He can practically hear her roll her eyes, but he ignores that. He stops in front of the door and turns. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she says, a slight sigh in her voice. He turns the door knob and pushes the door open wide so that Watson can enter.

The grand piano he’d ordered from Jeanne is standing in the middle of the room, lovely and perfectly polished. He’s quite proud of it- it’s a Bosendorfer, just like the one his mother played- and he turns to look at Watson.

She looks stunned, but not the bad kind, the kind that indicates that he’s crossed a line somewhere. There is a small gleam of light in her eyes, breaking through her guardedness, that makes him think he perhaps did quite well this time, actually.

“Sherlock, I told you that I was okay, that I didn’t need time away from the cases anymore,” she says, but it isn’t a real protest. He knows what a real protest from Watson sounds like.

“Even so, I thought you might like the occasional diversion, should you wish it. And one that is properly tuned,” he says. He takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders. “And I was hoping that you might play with me, at some point.”

Watson turns to him, frowning. “But you said violin was an artifact for you?”

He nods. “And it is. But aren’t artifacts for digging up and enjoying again? Having a diversion we can both turn to might not be the worst thing in the world.”

She drifts over to the piano, her fingers just barely brushing the keys. She is looking at it as though it were a holy relic, a certain reverence in the way she approaches.

Something sacred, he thinks with satisfaction.

“You know I’m not as good on piano as you are on violin,” she warns, but it isn’t a no. She sits, tripping out a quick scale. The notes are rich and lush, and something warm settles at the base of his spine.

“You haven’t played since you were a teenager; I have continued to play the violin, on and off, for years. You will catch up.”

“If we play together, you’ll have to account for that.”

“I already have,” he says. He walks to the closet and opens it, pulling out the sheet music he’d hidden in there earlier and bringing it to her. “I was hoping we might begin working at this one.”

She looks through it quickly. “Dvorak,” she says, mostly to herself. “It’s a good choice.”

She sets the music on the piano and sets her hands to the keys, coaxing out the sweet, somewhat sad melody, slowly at first, then with increasing comfort and confidence. He walks back to the closet and pulls out his violin, tuning it quietly to himself as he watches her play the opening passage. Her spine is relaxed, her face is gentle, and her wrists and fingers are graceful, elegant. The breath catches in his throat as she leans into the passage.

It isn’t the music. The music is still somewhat amateurish, occasional notes missed and jumped into, the tempo uneven. But she is exquisite, and it hurts to breath.

He lifts his violin to his shoulder. The violin doesn’t require breath anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> The piece they begin to play at the end: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZTeavJ9frA


End file.
